Silent Treatment by Michael Palmer Read Free Book Online

understanding and unity among the staff.
    “You primary care physicians are still the foundation of our medical delivery system,” he said. “Never forget that.”
    Harry accepted the handshakes and congratulations of Doug Atwater, Steve Josephson, and a number of the other staff members. But he knew that while he had helped the GPs save face, their loss of stature was severe. The ground-swell of support following his speech had not changed that. He worked his way free and headed down toward the exit by the amphitheater stage. He was nearly there when Caspar Sidonis stepped in front of him. For a moment, Harry thought the former boxer was going to take a swing at him.
    “Enjoy your little show while you can, Corbett,” hesaid. “It’s not going to make a bit of difference around here. You’ve always been a wiseass. But this time you’ve picked the wrong person to fuck with.”
    He whirled and stalked away.
    “Asking you over for tea?” Doug Atwater asked.
    Harry recovered and forced a smile.
    “There’s something going on with that guy and me. Something beneath the surface that I don’t even know about,” he said.
    “Forget about him,” Doug replied. “Come on. Let me buy you a Coke. You’re a hell of a guy, Harry. A hell of a guy.”

CHAPTER 3
    It was midmorning when Harry finished dictating two discharge summaries and left the hospital for the six-block walk to his office on West 116th Street. The day was cloudless and just cool enough to be invigorating. Still, despite the weather, he sensed the return of the persistent flatness that had been dogging him for months. It was a feeling unlike anything he had ever experienced before—even during his year of pain and disability. And his failure to simply will it away was becoming increasingly frustrating. Distracted, Harry stepped onto Lexington Avenue against the light and narrowly missed walking into a Federal Express truck.
    “Hola
, Doc, over here!”
    The cabby, dropping off a fare, waved to him from across the street. It took a moment, but Harry recognized the husband of one of his obstetrics patients—one of his
last
obstetrics patients, he thought grimly.
    “Hola
, Mr. Romero. How’s the baby?” he asked once he had made it across.
    The man grinned and gave an A-okay sign.
    “You need a ride anyplace?”
    “No. No, I don’t, Mr. Romero. Thanks anyway.”
    The man smiled and drove off.
    The brief exchange gave Harry a boost. He started walking again, picking up his pace just a little.
    The canary yellow Mercedes convertible was parked by the hydrant in front of the building where Harry had a ground-floor office. Phil Corbett was grinning at him from behind the wheel.
    “Shit,” Harry whispered.
    It wasn’t that he disliked his younger brother. Quite the contrary. It was just that Phil was harder for him to take on some days than on others. And today was one of those days.
    “A mint condition vintage 220SL with sixteen thousand miles on her,” Phil said, motioning him in. “I just picked her up at my midtown showroom. Do you have any idea what this baby’s worth?”
    Phil’s formal education had ended one month into community college, when he gave up trying to compete with Harry and joined the Navy. Three years later he was back in civilian clothes, selling cars. The profession was tailor-made for his ingenuous smile, uncluttered psyche, and perpetual optimism. Five years after his first sale, he bought out the owner of the agency. After that, he began to expand. Now, six agencies later, he had two daughters and a son in private school, a lovely wife who couldn’t spend what he made even if she wanted to, and a three handicap at one of the most exclusive country clubs in New Jersey. He also had no trouble dealing with life’s big questions. He never asked them.
    “Eight hundred and seventy-three thousand, four hundred and ninety-two dollars and seventy-three cents,” Harry said. “Plus tax, destination, and dealer preparation